Mercury's Flight
by BAnder54
Summary: Scott and Johnny head for the Bar A to discuss an issue of land ownership, they find more than they had bargained for in the ranch foreman. A story that deals with home.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Mercury is the Roman god of travelers, among other things. The word _mercurial_ is commonly used to refer to something or someone volatile or unstable, derived from Mercury's swift flights from place to place

Mercury's Flight

Johnny toyed with his coffee at the kitchen table. Every once in a while, he would look over at his brother. Scott's back was to him and he was looking out the window, staring off into sunshine and air as though he'd find a big secret hanging mid-way between the hacienda and the corral.

Murdoch was in San Francisco and although he'd sent good news, it had been a tough week all in all, and here they were, making breakfast last as long as they could. The coffee was bitter and cold and he wished Scott would say something, which just went to show how bad a week it was.

Scott crumpled the telegram in one tight fist. "I'm riding to the Bar A and talk to Albright."

"What about our lost cowboy bein' shot at and taken to Val because he was trespassing? And the cut fence line? Or the 'Get Out' signs showing up on the property all of a sudden? They don't mean anything?" Too many questions all at once guaranteed Scott would grind his molars. Mulish—that was one word for it. Just one.

"That's exactly why I'm going."

"You think Albright's gonna listen to you?"

Scott turned away from the window and his face bore a puzzled expression, making his eyes frown. "I can't believe you have a problem with this. The telegram Murdoch sent shows we have the law on our side."

It was all they had heard the day before Murdoch left: leave it to the law, leave it to the law, justice will come out ahead. Sometimes justice was about as solid as smoke. "Paper don't mean a damn thing when someone's holding a forty-four."

"Albright may be a bully who likes to push boundaries, but he abides the law. He could have had Willis shot and killed easily enough, but he didn't. And it was him who set this all in motion in the first place by taking the complaint to the courts, not by using Bar A guns."

Johnny sat in silence for several heartbeats, not even looking at his brother, which was all the permission Scott needed.

"So, are we going?"

Yesterday, Johnny recalled, he'd been able to talk his brother into throwing off some pasture work and going to the lake. It was easy, the ride across their land, knowing no matter how far they went, they'd still be on Lancer. The laughs were easy, too, the back and forth talk about nothin' more important than what Maria was making for supper that night, or which mare would foal first. A thousand afternoons in a thousand shitty towns, the only redeeming things had been his horse and gun. Johnny always found it harder to end the day than Scott did.

But today was a different day. He fingered the rim of his cup, his thumbnail sliding into the chip on the side as smooth as butter. "Might as well," he replied. "Been waitin' a long time to see what drives a man like Albright."

He pushed away the cup and got up.

~o~o~o~

In the wake of the long summer, the trail leading off the ranch was one big long strip of dust. Johnny had seen a land dry up more than once: California, Texas, Mexico. Maybe Arizona, too. It had gotten to the point where he couldn't really remember all the places he'd been in his life and it scared him a little. Like the old man in the corner house in Spanish Wells who sat on his porch talking with his wife, only she'd been dead and gone for years. But maybe he just wanted to forget all the moving from place to place, what it meant. But the smell of the heat reminded him of his mother's perfume, dabbed behind each ear. Making tortillas with her, masa on his hands. Fried _buñuelos_, a coal-black pony, and rain.

Johnny shifted his weight in the saddle and listened to the familiar creak. Barranca twitched his ears around to the sound, but didn't find it significant enough to turn his head. "Scott, you ever wonder why a man like Albright does the things he does? "

"Not really. While I certainly don't agree with the way he runs his ranch, it's his to run."

"He's had six foremen in the last four years, accordin' to Murdoch. Nilsen has lasted the longest, so far. It's a real wonder why he stayed on."

"Especially after Murdoch mentioned that Nilsen has a good head on his shoulders. Matter-of-fact, honest." Scott reined his horse, pulled alongside knee to knee. "He's the one who worked out the litigation for Albright."

"Who takes as he sees fit, building his kingdom bit by bit. He ramrodded the Carters off their ranch without so much as a by-your-leave."

"He did pay for it."

"Yeah, bottom dollar, and now he's going after our little strip of land, full of green pasture even in this drought and a clear, mountain-fed stream."

Johnny had been trying to figure out a way to approach the idea of comparing Murdoch and Albright. There were only so many ways, however, and Scott got there before him. He nodded like Johnny had actually said something.

"Apples and oranges, really. Murdoch has softened up considerably since the day we first met him." Scott waited a beat or two then looked at him, eyebrows raised.

They both laughed at the absurdity of the statement. There was nothing soft about Murdoch Lancer, but there no comparison to Kenneth Albright, either.

"Scott, would you've stayed?"

"If Murdoch turned out to be like Albright? Ah, excellent question." His eyebrows furrowed to a single line under the brim of his hat. "No."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. It would have confirmed my deepest suspicions."

That was all he was going to say, the soft exhalation, the quick dart of the eyes back to Johnny, because that particular door wasn't open anymore. Scott wasn't going to question it, even though Johnny did, from time to time, his own upbringing and all the peculiarities that went along with it.

"And what about you, Johnny?"

He cleared his throat, kept his eyes on the trail. "I had it in my mind what Murdoch was before I even got on that stage to Morro Coyo and I guess what I know about Albright now kind of fit the bill about right, at least back then. Oh, I would've stayed long enough to collect my money, maybe take a look or two at the big house and that corral full of horses, but men like Albright leave a bad taste in my mouth." His hand came off the saddle horn, gestured and returned. "It wouldn't have worked out."

It almost didn't work out anyway, but he and Murdoch had come to terms—shaky or not—after a ride to Black Mesa to look at horses.

They rode in silence for a couple of miles until a sign post advised them a decision had to be made. The 'No Trespassing' was written in black paint, with a bit dribbled down the side, sun-worn and lightened enough to look like blood.

The trail took them over a small rise that opened to a small pond, the kind that held a lot of promise for a pretty afternoon. That is if its banks hadn't been crisscrossed by long lengths of willows tied with twine. Any body of water this close to the property line would be considered a general use stock pond, but not this one. It was too far from the main house to do much good, but Albright didn't want anyone else to take advantage of it, either. Another black mark in the man's tally.

As they passed by the end of the pond, Scott's horse skittered to the side, pulling on the bit. Barranca caught the panic and started to shimmy away. For a brief moment, nothing happened then a buzzing sound filled his ears. Johnny felt the shift of air as something moved, just to his left, a sweep of cotton tails maybe. Then, high-pitched laughter.

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**Mercury's Flight**

**Part 2**

"Hey!" Johnny shouted, his hands full of reins and dancing horse. Barranca twisted sideways and his rump swung into Scott's horse, setting it off again along with a muffled curse from its rider. "Hey!" Johnny repeated, pulling around, mindful of hooves and trail, and his own dealings with casual pranks.

He and Scott turned in tandem and Johnny recognized the boy with the shaggy hair and baggy clothes, the wire rimmed glasses, laughing so hard he choked.

Scott came down off his horse like it was on fire, ready to clap on leg irons.

"Wait a minute. I know' im from somewhere."

Scott scratched his forehead, thinking. He took a deep breath. "From the mercantile perhaps?"

"Yeah, Peter—something."

The kid had stopped laughing the minute Scott stepped out of his stirrup. His brother's voice boomed out, "Are you Peter?"

The toy in his hand was silent for the time being. He gathered himself, eyes large and frightened. "None of your business."

Johnny would have agreed, if the horses hadn't been spooked. He folded his hands on the pommel, stared impassively. The kid wouldn't have any way of knowing this was a look borrowed from his Madrid days, but now fit him like a too-big necktie. "You work at the store in town?"

He puffed up like a bird in winter. "Didn't you read the sign? You're trespassing. This is Albright land."

So the boy belonged here, but Johnny couldn't remember if Albright had any children—especially as young as this one—thirteen or fourteen, at the most. He thought of half a dozen lazy retorts to the question, none of which were gonna help the situation.

"At least he's talking, that's a start." In a wink, Scott's simmer was over. He didn't even look over at Johnny, but his mouth quirked in a little grin. "What do you have there that made the noise?"

Just as suddenly, the kid lowered his hackles and smiled Christmas-big. When he walked out of the cattails towards them Johnny dismounted for lack of anything better to do, besides, he wanted to see, too.

It was a button spinner, only bigger. Half a palm-sized piece of metal, hammered out with jagged edges all around and a piece of leather so well-worn it was shiny, tying the whole shebang together. There were some feathered markings around the two holes and along the saw spikes. Someone had taken their time with it. Johnny pulled the string taut, one end in each hand, and the familiar sound whistled forth.

Scott made a lunge for the dropped reins when his horse nickered and backed away. "Do you mind?"

"I guess not." He stopped the spinner, handed it back to the boy. "That's a nice piece."

The kid beamed bright. "My pa and I made it together. He forged the metal and showed me how to make the little marks on it."

"Are you Peter, from the mercantile then?" asked Scott.

He herded his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Uh-huh, I work there sometimes after school."

"Who's your father, Peter?"

"Erik Nilsen. What do you want with him?" The foreman's kid, Johnny thought, who would know the ranch inside and out.

Johnny watched Scott fight a grin at the prickle in the kid's words. "We're actually here to see Mr. Albright."

"He's not here. Went all the way to Modesto to check on some cattle while he was waiting for some news, but he should be back today on the three-fifteen." Comprehension dawned and the kid's eyes narrowed. "Are you the Lancers?"

"I'm Scott and this is my brother, Johnny."

Peter shrugged one shoulder. "I guess you'd want to talk to my Pa, then."

Peter's eyes latched on to Johnny. "You gonna say something to my Pa? About this?" Heat crept across the tips of his ears as he held up the spinner in one hand. For all he'd seen of the boy—and it wasn't much—Peter looked sharp and thin, but he'd grown taller, more sure of himself in a way Johnny never was, at least at that age.

"What do ya think? Let' im go this time?"

His suggestion surprised a small laugh out of his brother like he'd forgotten his horse had almost bucked him off. Scott took his time and stroked his chin while the boy squirmed, moving the toe of his boot through the dirt. "I suppose we can make an exception—in this case," and it came out in a heavy, Murdoch-sized aggrieved sigh.

But only Johnny heard it and knew it was all for show because the kid was already racing to the pond and his hobbled pony.

~o~o~o~

Peter led the way, not to the main house but to a much smaller clapboard cabin. Bunches of marigolds ringed the porch, a new coat of whitewash on the door. Like the spinner, someone had taken their time to make it a home.

Erik Nilsen wore an etched face that had fallen into a heavy sense of responsibility at some point in his life and never recovered. He didn't move from his spot on the porch, just motioned Peter to come stand by his side after the introductions, folded his arms and waited.

Johnny considered Scott and something inside him shivered, wondering if his brother would become the sort of person who looked like that, given time. He'd been so _ready _to take the bull by the horns and deal with the Albright issue in Murdoch's absence.

Only the bull wasn't home, just his second.

He felt eyes on him, Nilsen was staring. Johnny swung a leg over the pommel to drop off Barranca and join Scott. It was a united front, if nothing else.

Nilsen's hand was solid, fingers tough and calloused. They were hard, working hands but they enclosed Johnny's with care. His grasp was warm and Johnny squeezed back, feeling suddenly out of place.

"We don't want to put you out," Scott began and he could tell that his brother was struck by Nilsen in some way because he was searching for words. He never had to do that.

"I'll be the judge of that, Mr. Lancer." The man's voice carried a few hints of the old world, almost musical, definitely not forgiving.

He addressed the boy, "Peter, there's some wood I've chopped around back, it needs to be stacked and the kindling brought into the house. You do it now, ya?"

Peter looked from one man to the next and hesitated, leaving only when he father gave him a small push towards the door.

"My son thinks he should run the place, but he's still a bit young for that." Nilsen had a gleam in his eye, like he was ready to tangle. "What have you got, Mr. Lancer?"

"As you might have expected, our father took the litigation from the Bar A to a higher court. We received news from him," and Scott raised it in the air like a white flag. "They've decided in Lancer's favor. The section of land your employer has tried to acquisition is ours, legally and forever."

Nilsen reacted like he'd been slapped, as if the realization of what Scott said had finally hit him.

So did Peter, who came out of the house and stood there with an open mouth. He flipped the black hair out of his eyes with one violent twitch, sending his glasses sliding down his nose. He was all legs and arms, and at the end of those arms were two balled fists.

"Pa? Is it true?"

Johnny was jarred by the vehemence of the question.

Nilsen sighed. "You've been listening at corners, Peter."

The boy's chin came up. "Is it?"

Nilsen eyed Scott as he spoke, "It's not truly official yet, but a telegram was sent and once Mr. Albright knows…."

"You're wrong," Peter said, eyes fierce. He stalked over to confront Scott. "It's not my Pa's fault.

Johnny flicked a warning to Scott but it bounced off and died in the dust. His brother straightened and pasted a grim smile on his face like a father with a spoonful of awful-tasting medicine. "You're right, Peter, it's not your father's fault. It's not anyone's fault. But the law has ruled it so. Do you understand?"

The boy's glance slid around from Scott to his pa, and Johnny noticed how one hand gripped the railing of the porch so hard his knuckles turned white.

"That's enough, Peter." Nilsen seemed to fold in upon himself as he pulled out a beaten pocket watch. His shoulders contracted, and Johnny knew a hit when he saw one. He looked at Scott and figured his puzzled expression just about fit his own.

"It's almost time to meet the stage, ya? I've hooked up the new mare as he wanted, and shined the carriage but I need you to meet Mr. Albright because I have to take care of a few things here."

The kid swallowed. He wouldn't refuse the order, not after he'd said his piece. He wanted to, raised his chin a little higher and met his father's stare. He was difficult to read right now, masking.

"And, son, make sure to take your horse, you know how Mr. Albright likes to drive his own carriage."

The boy nodded and the hand that was holding on to the railing relaxed a little, finally dropped to his side and he left at a jog to the barn.

Scott turned to Nilsen. "What's going on?"

In the warm light, the lines on his face seemed to have been applied with paint. Gray eyes blinked round and his mouth was clamped shut, worried. "When did your father send the telegram?" he demanded.

Scott sent Johnny a worried look all of his own. "It arrived yesterday."

Nilsen was frightened, Johnny knew that right away, could tell from the concentration he was putting into his hands, outlining one vein then another with his thumb. He paused between fingers and looked up. "Do you know much about Mr. Albright?"

Johnny spoke, "We've never dealt with the man. Other than finding one of our men in jail and signs on our property."

Nilsen had the good sense to look embarrassed.

"He makes the rules here at the Bar A, of course it's his prerogative as owner, but there is a big book filled with them. As his foreman, I wrote out the paperwork for that section of land in contention. It didn't go through as expected, and it's my poor showing because it wasn't good enough. I'll need to pack up our things and be off the ranch within the hour after he finds out." Nilsen held still for a moment, looked towards the barn. "It's been our home for almost two years. Peter…" and his hand raised, looking at them as though he was expecting either Scott or him to finish the sentence, to understand.

Johnny did. He understood. So he finished that sentence, and was told more: how Peter was doing so well in school, how he had made friends, had even started working in the store from time to time and was proud of the trust he had earned from the mercantile owner.

Nilsen paused when his son came out of the barn and tied his saddled horse to the back of the carriage. He climbed onto the seat and sent the mare walking. She sidestepped and twitched in the harness before settling down, Peter handling her with care. He didn't look back.

Scott shoved the telegram into his front pocket and blinked hard. Johnny knew that look, that blink. He wasn't going anywhere until he figured out what to do.

"What if my brother and I ride to town and talk with Albright?"

It wasn't what Johnny was expecting. And neither was Nilsen, if the raised eyebrows were any indication.

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

**Mercury's Flight **

**Part 3**

Leaving Nilsen to his packing, and what Johnny thought were some paper thin hopes, he and Scott left for Green River. He was aware that his brother was holding back, yet didn't know why. Forcing the ride to town—and he understood the why's of it, just not the what's—then riding ahead so Johnny would stop asking questions. It worked for the first mile.

Johnny kneed Barranca closer. "Can you tell me something?"

"What's that?"

"Why were you all so fired up to talk to Albright this morning?" and he saw some of Scott's shiny confidence slip a little.

"That little piece of land," Scott gestured out wide to his left with a spans of yellow glove, and it could've meant Lancer, the mountains, or California, "is ours."

"And?"

"And the law agrees. This one time, Johnny, one time," he stabbed the air with his finger, "it was done in a civilized manner through the courts, without anyone getting hurt. Just a few signs, an overnight stay in jail for a cowboy who couldn't read, and a piece of cut wire."

"You wanted to make sure Albright knew before anythin' could happen."

"Yes."

Scott shifted in the saddle, drawing Johnny's attention. Where he hoarded all the sunny days, sudden rides to the lake, or stealthy adventures in town, his brother was different. Not empty, but it took a long time to fill him up. Being Scott, everything needed to have careful thought, as though he could check off what got in and what was left over, like a store owner with an inventory of goods.

It struck him: Scott didn't leave. He might have had a hard time lettin' go of those fancy suits, and bigger problems trying to figure out the West to fit in, but he didn't leave.

Johnny suddenly understood something about his brother that had escaped him, because the telegram in Scott's pocket was a small link to Lancer, almost like he'd tethered himself to the land. Maybe it was Lancer itself. Life back east hadn't been so easy after all, apparently. That big Boston house and all its belongings were weighed against _home_ and had been found wanting.

As much as he knew what was written plainly on Scott's face, Johnny knew that something like it was on his own face from time to time. He thought about what had been traded and what was gained. What was said and done, and what was still in motion. Lancer and Murdoch bein' at the heart of it.

"I know," Johnny said after a while. Scott gave the barest of nods.

He pulled out his gold watch, the one Murdoch had given him so many months ago—and wasn't that a tether of sorts—and squinted with the sun. "The stage is almost due, we'd better get a leg up." But they both understood the stage was never on time so they didn't hurry, only rode in companionable silence until the first clapboard houses of Green River came into view.

Peter and the gleaming black carriage stood out among the boxes and passengers waiting at the stage depot.

As soon as they tied off their horses, a loud voice called out. It belonged to Malcolm, the granary owner. He waved a yellow piece of paper in the air and Scott mumbled something about last month's bill before walking over.

Johnny looked at Peter. He was slumped on the depot's steps, quiet in that still way a cat went when it saw a sudden movement in the bushes. Was something, really, that quiet intensity. The same look he had when confronting his pa at the Bar A.

Johnny shook his head. He'd once seen a picture hanging in the hallway of a Texas brothel. It was a man, naked as you please, with wings on his shoes and hat. If you had to travel, that'd be the way to do it. In the air as free as a bird. But this travelling, all this _moving on_, well, it always meant something else. Never freedom. Never home. It brought back a shiver as cold as a desert night.

_He dropped the bag on the table, it was heavy, full of good oranges from the mission (not stolen) and a book from the padre that was old and ripped and written in English, but still held Johnny's interest because of the man on the front. He was dressed in a fur coat with an odd little hat and carried two magnificent rifles. His name was funny, too, how it curled off his tongue: Robinson Crusoe. _

_It was past four o' clock, the promise from S__eñor__ Alvarez to ride his new pony calling Johnny's name. The day was grey outside, like it had been all week, the __equipatas __making everything chilly and the alleyways muddy. The wood pile was low and Johnny walked around with his borrowed coat on most of the time. It was some winter. _

_He slid his finger down the crack in the bedroom door and peered in. Mama was a dark lump on the bed. Johnny looked over his shoulder to where she made the meals. He poured a glass of water and decided he could at least get dinner together. He was almost used to being hungry, but they'd rationed the left-over beef scraps and a small bowl of beans and he thought now was as good a time as any to eat. And then? Off to ride the blackest pony Johnny had ever seen. _

_A knock rattled what was left of the window pane and he startled. No! Not Ramirez, slapping and yelling, wanting his rent money, and wanting it now. _

_But the knock was too soft to be the landlord. _

_He looked out the window and saw Pablo running away, a laughing grin splitting his face in two. Johnny couldn't stop his own laugh. _

_He turned around and mama stood there, her favored red shawl wrapped around her shoulders. _

"_Juanito, sit down. We need to talk."_

_He sat and clamped his hands between his knees as she walked across the room to the small fireplace. _

_Mama took a long breath and looked into the cold hearth. "I want you to listen to me." _

_He knew what was going to happen from the tone of her voice. His stomach dropped as time stalled. A rush of blood thundered in his ears. He raised his head. "We're leaving?" Like San Diego, Rosarito and Yuma. _

"_Sonora is a fine town, I think it will do us good to get out of here and get a fresh start."_

"_You mean, do you good! I like it here!" _

"_This is for the best, mi hijo."_

"_No, I'll live with Pablo."_

_Mama drew her shawl closer around her neck, coughed into her hand. "I know he's important to you, but you'll make new friends, they might even have a school."_

_He glared at her, wishing she would disappear like a puff of smoke up the chimney. _

_The muscles in her jaw tightened. "Don't look at me like that."_

_Johnny took a deep breath. Shook his head instead of crying, which was exactly what he felt like doing. But he was the man of the house, and that was unacceptable. _

It was funny what he hung on to all these years: never riding that coal-black pony and mama in bed, dying, not more than two weeks after they moved.

A whip cracked and the three-fifteen jolted into town.

As soon as the kid slid his glance to the stagecoach, Johnny saw something in his round green eyes shift to…Johnny didn't know what it was, not exactly. The hands curled around the boy's knees were steady.

He looked at Peter and saw him, really saw him, and wasn't ready for what he found.

Scott came out of the granary, wagging his head and stuffing whatever bill Malcolm had given him into his pocket. He joined Johnny at the depot and they watched the passengers disembark.

The first two allowed themselves to be helped down by the red-faced porter. Half a minute went by and they heard Albright before seeing him, yelling for his bag to be brought around pronto. Tall and spare, he stepped out and surveyed the town as if he owned it. Then he fixed Peter with a lizard-stare.

"Nilsen sent a boy to meet me?" asked Albright, heat coming out in a husky voice.

Peter took it and looked away, sweat beading on his temples.

That was the moment when Scott found his anger and shouldered Johnny out of the way as he went past, face set in a grimace, the very same from breakfast a million years ago. Cringe-worthy, like it had fallen to him to fix things that had been going wrong for the last twenty years.

"Albright," Scott said, sharp as broken glass.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Scott Lancer."

"So Murdoch is sending his whelp to speak for him?"

Ignoring the insult, he plowed on, "Speaking of my father, he sent a telegram from San Francisco."

"I don't want to see anything of yours."

"Oh, but I think you do. It's in regards to the piece of property on the eastern side of Lancer," Scott had said it softly, but unyielding for all that.

Albright pulled up like horse at the gate.

"Although the litigation was well-written by your foreman, the courts have ruled in Lancer's favor. You have no rightful claim. Let me reiterate, this came about through no fault of Mr. Nilsen, but the court has made its decision."

Looking up, Albright stared at Scott as though his brother had swung out his big fist and hit him. The fight for the land was over before it had even begun. Albright's mouth opened, then shut and he shook his head, but not before Johnny read what was in his expressive eyes. Betrayal.

He stalked to the carriage and yelled at Peter to mount.

Scott stood on the boardwalk with his hands held loosely by his side, all the blood rushing to his face, looking dangerous. Johnny caught up to him, held him back with a grip more forceful than he'd planned.

"Hey, c'mon. Let's get a drink."

Scott pulled his elbow away, tense, but willing. Willingness was half the battle as far as his brother was concerned, and Johnny was able to herd him across the street.

They'd only gotten into the saloon and settled at a table with their first drink before a shout on the street rose up: "Sheriff! There's been an accident!"

~o~o~o~

The smell of violence was hot, in the same way Maria's posada soup was, filling each nostril.

Peter's face was milk white, freckles peppered on underneath his glasses. Eyes so big and so wild and he didn't say a word, just sat at the side of the road in the dirt.

Scott and Val bypassed the spinning carriage wheel and tipped over the side of the embankment. Their footsteps hurried down the rocky terrain, jumping from rock to rock, sliding down the last little bit so that they came Albright's side. Johnny leaned over the rim, watching, sweat streaking down his face. He saw the shake of his brother's head and Val's nod as they looked over the body.

Scott's face dipped to the ground, then up again, light catching his eyes at an angle so they shone like glass. His whole demeanor from town had changed when they reached the accident site, had fallen into a collapsed heap, as though a pile of dirt dumped from the back of a wagon had just settled into where it was supposed to go. He looked spent, in that awful sunlight, with Albright's blood drying on his hand.

He turned when Nilsen thundered up on a lathered horse.

Peter's expression was...Johnny thought maybe 'hardened' was the right word, but that wasn't it, because the kid was scared. He could almost smell it. His heart thudded, because he could see what was in the kid's eyes, could put a name to it even though he was a man of few words.

A huge fear clawed its way up Johnny's throat, because he knew. He wanted to shake the boy's arm and ask, but he already knew. The law was a feather against the weight Peter carried and Johnny recognized the imbalance, even if he didn't know the details. But after seeing the kid push the leather cord into his pocket, didn't he know after all? An unsettled buzzing sound, an already tetchy horse spooked, the carriage driven into the ditch, its driver broken and twisted.

Ever since that time in Sonora, he'd learned quick enough to see the forest and to see the trees. The sun was stifling by the ditch and he let his questions go, amazed that something like the hot air between him and an overturned carriage could become a wall.

He stood in silence as Val and Scott made their way back up to the road.

Val spoke with Nilsen in a hushed voice. "Nothin' to do for it now. An accident, pure and simple. Albright left a big legacy but didn't have any kin that I know of. I'll send out the inquiries in the mornin', but there's somethin' I gotta ask." He tapped Nilsen on the shoulder and the man finally looked away from his boy, maybe thinking it could have been Peter in the ditch just as easy as Albright.

"Can you keep on runnin' the operations at the Bar A until somethin' comes through? It'll be months, mebbe a year or more, to get it all figured out."

It made Johnny uneasy to watch Val, because the law was such a big thing. The right and the wrong, where justice was stuck in the middle somewhere, or way out to the left.

He wished he never saw the look on the boy's face.

"Is there something else?" Scott said, his voice rough and raw, the first words he'd uttered since coming out of the ditch.

Judging him with those soft eyes, looking like there was something afoot and Johnny held all the cards. Standing there with his hands on his hips, as open as a daisy in high summer. The day had been so long after Scott had decided to talk to Albright about the land. Johnny was frayed, felt his seams picked, threads loose.

Scott cared, and it made him more miserable than before, knowing that. He cared way too much when it involved kids, had an ease around them that defied Johnny's notions of being raised by a bitter old abuelo.

"Well?" Scott's voice was harsh this time, reminding Johnny of their father. Val popped his head up, bushy eyebrows coming together in question.

Clamping his jaw shut seemed the only way to deal with it, because it was too late in the afternoon. Too late for a lot of things. Then he looked at Peter and the way he hunched into himself when Nilsen dropped his arm around the kid's shoulders and pulled him close.

"No, there ain't nothin' else."

The End

11/2014


End file.
